


Willow

by eyegnats



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Fencing, Fencing (Foil), Garreg Mach is an Elite Private College, Jock-Prep Hybrids, Marriage Pressure, Songfic, Sports, Sylvgrid Evermore Project, elopement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 12:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30021990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyegnats/pseuds/eyegnats
Summary: Sylvain and Ingrid participate in their first fencing bout since both of them, for differing reasons, quit the team.Willow is inspired by the titular Taylor Swift song, and the first part of the Sylvgrid Evermore Project.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 34
Collections: Sylvgrid Evermore Project





	Willow

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Sylvgrid Evermore Project.](https://twitter.com/SylvgridTs)

Things always seem to fall into place for Sylvain Gautier. Ingrid would excuse the whims of reality dipping to his will on the mere power of money, but even she can’t discredit the smooth slide of his words or his suggestive expressions. He talks his way into a key for their former practice facility. He talks his way into a plan to meet there after dark. He convinces Ingrid, somehow, that this is a good idea, and that there will be no negative repercussions. She knows that even if they were caught and sentenced he’d find a way to talk himself out of it.

She is not so tactful. She is fast, but fencing takes _precision,_ and there is a certain obtuseness to Sylvain’s style that lends his movements difficult to read. He’s a good practice target. He skirts forwards and backwards before her. He isn’t much for quickness, so his guarding stances have been honed to deflect Ingrid’s relentless offense. She thrives on the challenge.

The fluorescent lights of the gymnasium, their gymnasium, feel harsher next to the inky black of the night outside the windows. Ingrid is tired from her day, but she asked for this—asked Sylvain to spar with her, train with her, give her something to do that wasn’t the pomp and circumstance of her daily existence—and she will not waste the opportunity he has created for them.

Ingrid lunges.

Sylvain parries the particularly sloppy strike. It slides down his foil and over his shoulder. He knocks the weapon aside, playful, and settles back into position. It’s teasing enough to light a fire under her. She thrusts once, twice, three times, every attempt knocked aside. On the last go, he’s ambitious enough to shift their roles. The tip of his foil weaves around her stray attack and plunges into her chestguard. It bends with the impact—the arc of it final and strong, like the bow of a tree. A point in his favor, though they’re not keeping score. Ingrid skips herself back from the successful attack and musters the politeness to not curse. 

Sylvain pulls up from their ensuing _en garde._

He tugs his mask aside before Ingrid has the chance to lower her foil. Metal webbing and endless padding is shrugged off to reveal the messy red nest of his hair. His face is exposed. He’s always been just a tad too self-destructive to worry over safety guidelines, but Ingrid still clicks her tongue at him. He tucks his mask under his arm and asks, “Break time?”

“Since you’ve gone ahead and started one,” Ingrid replies. Her voice bites with a metallic echo from inside her mask. She removes hers, too, and smoothes her cropped hair off her face. She frowns at her most loyal friend as he slides off a thick glove and unlatches his shoulder guard. She says, “How long of a break are you intending?”

His fingers still. “Oh, you know,” he says.

“I don’t,” she replies.

He pauses. He’s used to people going along with him, but she usually doesn’t. Sometimes intentionally. Sometimes through sheer, accidental denseness of the world he seems keen on generating for himself. He offers, finally, “I think we should call it a night.”

Ingrid narrows her eyes. “All this effort and espionage for forty-five minutes?”

“You haven’t slept.”

Ingrid hasn’t. “What?” she says. “I’ve slept.”

“You’re out of practice, and you haven’t slept,” he replies. “Is it true you quit the team?”

This is not something Ingrid has informed Sylvain, but Sylvain has a way of knowing every little chess piece on his board regardless of her input. Ingrid did, indeed, quit the team two weeks ago. Her schoolwork had heaved itself upon her in a crushing wave, and Ingrid had never quite felt… welcome, among the fencing team. She’s sure this is her own fault: her occasional unsportsmanlike intensity, or her middling relationship with fellow women. Within the month of her first fencing season at Garreg Mach, Coach Catherine had labeled her a tough competitor with a tougher personality. She is three years older, now, but the labels never shook until she found the nerve to strip herself of them entirely.

There is a piece of her that still aches for the rush of competition, though. She says, “I’ve been a bit overloaded. We’ve got exams next month, and then a final semester I’m not keen to be distracted from.” Ingrid nods, certain in her decision. “I was a bit of a charity case for travelling events, anyway. I doubt I’ll be missed.” Sylvain frowns. She continues, despite his distaste, “And anyway, you’re in no place to berate me for dropping from the team.”

Sylvain would laugh and shrug her off if he wasn’t so busy staring intently at her. Sylvain never quit the men’s team so much as defaulted, his indulgences and lethargy towards the sport growing to such an extent that he simply stopped showing up. Ingrid knows his father paid for a not-insignificant chunk of the gymnasium they currently spar under. Ingrid knows that Sylvain would never, formally, be kicked from their prestige university’s prestige fencing club sponsored by prestige Gautier money. Ingrid also knows Sylvain has not shown his face in practice in over two months. He would only jump into a bout, when he got the whim, with her.

“I saw you last night, at the Goneril party,” Sylvain says.

Ingrid did attend the party the night prior. She assumed Sylvain was there, of course, but she had been hoping they had not crossed paths in the labyrinth of its mansion.

“You don’t sound very happy to see me being social,” Ingrid notes. “I’d assumed you’d be pleased.”

“I thought you were busy with schoolwork.”

It’s implicative. He’s not dumb, as much as he might wish himself to be, and there is no use in Ingrid pretending she was there for such things as _fun_ and _amusement._

The gymnasium ceiling is high and echoes their words like a choral chamber. Ingrid’s voice lowers. She does not wish to bite out at one of her few, close friends but her tone does fall tinted with a warning. “Your concern for my elbow-rubbing is registered, but unnecessary.”

“That’s awfully accusative,” Sylvain replies. He seems to sense the darker shift, and brightens to combat it. “I’ve never once thought ill of you, dear Ingrid. You know this.”

Ingrid knows this. Ingrid tries to keep as many assurances as she can beneath her, for stability, and Sylvain’s faith in her is nothing short of a foundation.

“...My father set aside a very significant portion of our resources so I could attend this school,” Ingrid states, slowly. “I am in fact no better than the women you find yourself ever in flux with, but I hope I have your understanding.”

Ingrid did not intend it as a dig. She’s far too blunt for such intentional subtleties. Sylvain still pales. Every poisoned word about the women he’s drawn in and discarded seems to plead to be dragged back into his throat. He offers, only, “I’ll always support you.”

“I was supposed to—well, I was encouraged to make connections here.” Ingrid grip tightens on the mask in her arms. “Now I find myself hurtling towards graduation, having dodged my father’s wishes in favor of literature lectures and sports.”

Sylvain’s eyes narrow. “He wants you to find a husband before the end of the school year.”

“He wants me to do the best I can for my family,” Ingrid voices, hoping the edge of her words will overcome their dull content. “And I haven’t been. So I have six months to rectify that.”

“Don’t frame this like you’ve been lazy—”

“You have no idea what it’s like,” Ingrid says, deathly, “no earthly idea.”

Sylvain takes a deep breath. Lets her anger simmer. He is an expert at avoiding escalation.

“I’ll cop to that,” he admits.

Ingrid waits for elaboration. It doesn’t come, and so she breathes out a sigh and lets the shoulders she’s hiked up relax. This is what Sylvain is waiting for. He waits for her anger to dissipate, strains the conversation to an off beat, then adds, “But that doesn’t mean I’m keen on watching a friend sacrifice everything so some crusty, old-money bank account has fresh blood.”

Ingrid shakes her head at him. “The sacrifice is minimal, and I’ve been well-prepared to make it.”

“You miss it though, don’t you?”

“Fencing?”

Sylvain snorts. “Sure, Ingrid. Fencing.”

She knows he is being facetious but she’s not savvy enough to know his intended point. Ingrid looks down at the foil in her hand, the mask beneath her arm. Her gaze snaps back to Sylvain. “I want another bout.”

“Another?” he asks.

“Yes,” she replies. “You dragged me out here. Let’s fence.”

Ingrid feels better with her mask drawn over her face. The world is easier from a narrow window—the edges blinded, vision sabotaged with a gate of armor around her. Sylvain is slower to redress. He refastens his shoulder guard and tugs up his glove. He gives her a sad, appointing smile as he slides his mask back on. Ingrid knows what it means, _this isn’t over, I have things I intended to discuss, I’m indulging you._ If she presses him to drop his goals for the night she knows he will not press back very hard. Even so, his sympathy pools warm in her chest, deep beneath her reluctance to admit intimacy and an abstract fear of pity.

He wins. Unlike Ingrid, he’s used to fencing after a heavy night of partying and a restless, sleepless schoolday. She strikes, and lunges, and curses, and nearly cries. He is a guarded wall she cannot crack the defenses of, and her endless attempts serve only to exhaust herself further until he says, “Ingrid.” And, “Break time? For real?”

Ingrid ends up sitting against the wall, her jacket half-undone and her chest guard removed so air can reach her skin. Her hair is properly slicked with sweat, now. Sylvain returns from the locker room with a fresh, filled water bottle and hands it to her.

He squats beside her. Then, with a grunt, falls to a sit. Their foil kits lie discarded beside the fencing strip. They’ll have to sort and pack their things later.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Sylvain tells her, taking a sip of his own bottle, because Ingrid’s not sure he’s ever seen a life path he couldn’t attempt to run from.

Ingrid composes her breath. If it was Sylvain’s intentions to wear her raw and open they are not entirely failing. She is tired. She is upset, maybe. Just a little. Her chest aches. She opens her mouth and hears her word ring exhausted. Defeated. “...When you don’t have any goals, it might seem like everything goes your way.”

Sylvain’s head tips to her.

Her face is flat. “When you have genuine, honest stakes in your life, things that are important to you get offered up on the altar in pursuit of that.” Ingrid tips her bottle back and chugs a drink. Sylvain does not offer a response, so when the water is finished sliding down her throat, she continues, “There’s no shame in—wanting something, and crawling through the mud to get to it.”

Sylvain grins at her. “You don’t think there’s things I desire?”

“I hardly see you get upset over much,” Ingrid says. “Openly, at least.”

“I’ve been upset over you.” She stiffens. He clarifies, “Worried, about you, recently. I don’t want to sit back and watch you give up everything that puts a spark in your step. When you asked to fence with me I nearly jumped over myself at the thought of providing you with something, anything. I wanted to help with everything you’re refusing to talk to me about.”

Ingrid rubs at the red on her face. “I don’t need a supportive audience while I offer my hand up in the market square,” she says. “It’s embarrassing enough.”

“It’s not,” Sylvain says. “Tragic, maybe. But not embarassing.”

“I can handle it.”

It’s quiet. The gym lights are too bright, the night too dark in contrast. It makes her feel dizzy. It makes her feel as if she definitely shouldn’t be here.

“You shouldn’t have to handle this,” Sylvain states. “There are… There are things I would sacrifice, if it meant an easier path for you.” He pauses, then laughs. “Maybe you’re my altar.”

It’s a line. It’s a line, and Ingrid nearly falls for it. She flushes and looks staunchly in the other direction from him. “You sound like you’re about to offer me a loveless marriage to appease my father.”

“Loveless?”

The tone of Sylvain’s voice is inscrutable. Ingrid tries to register it: Teasing? Disappointed? She’s not sure. She hasn’t looked back at him, and much of her doesn’t want to.

“...Can I tell you a secret?” she asks.

“Always.”

“I don’t want to get married. At all.”

“Oh, I know.” Sylvain chuckles. “Can I tell you a secret, too?”

Ingrid knows what is coming. It’s thrummed beneath them all evening, all school year, maybe even for their entire lives. It has been strange to so constantly interact with a man just steps away from a confession. It has been strange to refute the knowledge of feelings, of energy Ingrid can’t categorize. She turns her head to Sylvain. She says, “Yes, you can.” Then, “Always.” 

She waits. The way he looks at her, all sad and longing, is enough to fan her suspicions. Sylvain seems to struggle. He takes a breath.

“I don’t have enough credits to graduate,” he admits, “and I haven’t told my father.”

This is not what Ingrid expects and with nominal preparation she can only stare at him.

“I don’t have enough credits. But I do have a nominal trust fund from my grandmother that he doesn’t have access to,” Sylvain says. “And I have you.”

Ingrid is still staring at him, attempting to parse his words. She states what she should say first: has he spoken with his school advisor? They might be able to make accommodations for him. He might need to take it to the dean but she’s sure he can talk his way out of the situation, and she’s willing to stand as a character witness. How many credits short is he? Can he make up the difference next semester with permission for a fuller load? Ingrid talks, and talks, and offers solutions, and only once she’s on the third or fourth does she realize that Sylvain is not listening. He looks to her, nearly entertained. He looks upon her with a sweet smile and sad eyes and Ingrid realizes, suddenly, that this is not something that he is going to resolve. She realizes, suddenly, that he does not want to.

Sylvain leans close, close enough that she can see where sweat has plastered the thin hairs around his temple, where the little pale scars of cut-cheeks past exist in faint lines. She can smell where expensive cologne hasn’t quite been worked off by their sparring. She can hear the earnestness in his unsure breath. When he opens his mouth his voice is barely over a whisper. He says, “Do you want to get out of here?”

Ingrid’s cheeks heat. “I can’t, uh—I have an early morning class,” she states. “I cannot sleep with you.” Then, too rushed to be subtle, “Not tonight. Specifically.”

Sylvain lets out a single laugh. He smiles, ever amused with her. “I meant,” he starts, “do you want to get out of Garreg Mach?”

Ingrid swallows.

Steadies herself. “And go where?”

Sylvain shrugs. “Wherever. I have money. I don’t think it will get us further than a year on its own, but we’re not dumb, and both of us thrive better with freedom.” He nods his head to that. “Most people probably do, now that I think about it. That’s not as profound as it sounds.”

Ingrid isn’t sure what to say. There are sacrifices she has to make, and Sylvain acts as if he will walk her out of the altar room, hand in hand, arms swaying, without guilt or concern or a thousand haunting what-ifs. He acts like it’s nothing. Which is good, probably, because she’s not sure she could stand her ground against such an idea if he actually formed a solid defense.

“My father sacrificed a lot to get me here,” Ingrid says, because there is still ground and she will stand on it.

“You can build your own life,” Sylvain replies. “You can find your own path and, hell, if he’s still struggling without you, you can send money home. Wouldn’t that feel good? Wouldn’t that feel so much better?” Ingrid feels so numb with the potential that she’s not sure she’s ever once felt a feeling before in her life. “Think on it,” Sylvain finishes. “I won’t force you to make a decision right now. Just think on it. For me.”

“And you’re leaving no matter what?” Ingrid asks.

“Yeah,” Sylvain says. “Yeah, Ingrid. I’ve got my own cuts to make.”

The ceiling overhead is high and the fluorescents feel like they’re admitting microwaves and Ingrid is small, overexposed, beneath it all. Her fingers grip around her water bottle. She’s exhausted, and in a wave—or possibly a wane—of confidence she allows herself to lean left. She leans, and falls, until the side of her face hits the padded shoulder of Sylvain’s fencing jacket.

It is a strange reality to accept that a dozen best-laid plans could be destroyed over the course of a spar. It is a strange reality.

“...I have my own savings, if we need a few more months,” she tells him, because she’s always prided herself on her courage but right now she can’t even muster a single yes to accept the offer. It’s still enough, though. Her intentions make it through. Every muscle in Sylvain’s body seems to give beneath her and a hand reaches up to tuck a sweat-slick bunch of hair behind her ear.

“Do you?” he asks, soft, right above her head.

“Yes,” she says. She can say yes to this indirect question. There is a sweet relief in the word. “Assuming it’ll all work out.”

“Don’t scare me with this much faith, Ingrid.”

She only carries as much faith in him as he provides for her in return.

“It’ll work out,” she repeats. “...Because it always does, for you. Now doesn’t it?”

**Author's Note:**

> [ _I'm begging for you to take my hand. / Wreck my plans. / That's my man._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RsEZmictANA)


End file.
